Her gaze stayed fixed on my chin. It always did, unless she got worked up enough, like when she'd declared unbidden that she wasn't fixing her hair. Brief shows of defiance. Achingly brief. Frustratingly brief.
There was more in that lowered gaze than deference, though. I could sense it. Feel it, thrumming through the air between us.
"Did--?" I began.
Joey raced past wearing a tattered backpack in the shape of an owl. It reminded me of the one that hooted outside my window that morning. A bad omen. If you believed in omens.
"Joey!" Cathy said. "Stop running and sit down." Then, to me, "Sorry, Miss Jones."
"No, he's fine. I was just admiring his backpack." I tore my gaze away. "Did the bakery ever give you that reference?"
She shook her head. I cursed under my breath. Cathy's last job had been at a bakery. Owned by the cousin of the man who'd left her pregnant. Her old boss now couldn't seem to recall how good an employee she'd been and thus sadly could not give a reference.
I had the name of the bakery in my wallet. More than once, I'd been tempted to help the woman remember Cathy. I had a few ideas for how to accomplish that. It's a satisfying image to contemplate, and it would be so much more feasible if I wasn't Olivia Taylor-Jones, daughter of Lena Taylor, renowned Chicago philanthropist, and Arthur Jones, owner of the iconic Mills & Jones department store. But I am, and as such, I have other avenues of attack, equally effective, if somewhat lacking in drama.
"Let's leave that for now. I'm sure she'll change her mind." Very sure. "We'll grab a coffee and have a look through job postings."
After Cathy left, I flipped through the stack of job printouts. I told myself I was making sure I hadn't missed a suitable one for Cathy, but I was really looking for myself. Pointless, of course. In so many ways.
My mother had always expected me to follow her example. Marry well and devote myself to volunteerism and philanthropy. Leave paid work for those who need it. Dad had been more amenable to the idea that a young woman in my position could have a career beyond organizing fund-raisers. My mother came from money--she was the daughter of minor nobility, raised in English society. Dad had been brought up in the business world, where you were expected to work until you couldn't. Or until you had a fatal heart attack at the age of sixty-one, leaving behind a daughter who, ten months later, couldn't look at your picture without missing you so desperately it hurt.
I always thought I'd work for Dad someday. Take over the family business eventually. It didn't matter if the store bored me to tears. I'd be working with him and that would make him so happy. Except now he was gone, and I couldn't bear to step through the store's front doors.
For now, I intended to go back to school in the fall and get my doctorate in Victorian lit. No idea what I'd use that for in the real world, but it would give me time to figure out what I wanted.
I hadn't told my mother my plans. No use stressing her out when her dream was about to come true--her only child married, and married well. As for my fiance, James ... I hadn't told him, either. First I was checking out my options for local schools. Once that was set--and before the wedding--I'd tell him. He'd be fine with it. He didn't expect me to sit home and keep house for him. Not unless I wanted to. I most certainly did not want to.
When I finished tidying up, I stepped outside the front doors, and the city hit me. The screech of tires and growl of engines. The stink of exhaust and the tang of roast pork. The flash of colors--bright shirts, neon signs, blinding blue sky.
Our family doctor used to blame my hypersensitivity on my upbringing, raised in a quiet house in the suburbs. But years of city exposure didn't seem to help. I'd walk onto a busy street and every sight, sound, and smell assaulted me, my brain whirring as if trying to make sense of it all. I'd learned to adjust--it was part of my life. Usually it passed in a moment, as it did now. I took a deep breath and headed to the gym.
The photographer stepped back into the shadowy doorway as the young woman approached. Once she was abreast of him, he lifted his camera and held down the shutter button, silently snapping photos.
Amazing how much she looked like her mother.
Chapter Two
"You're lucky I love you," I whispered as I leaned over. "Or I would be so out of here."
He smiled, a blazing grin that had every woman at the table swooning. CEO of Chicago's fastest growing tech firm, and son of a former senator, James Morgan isn't gorgeous, but that grin had landed him a spot on the city's most eligible bachelors list for three years running. Sadly, he wouldn't be eligible next year. Well, sadly for everyone else.
"Another hour," he whispered. "Then Penny has instructions to phone me with an urgent message."
Good. As charity dinners went, this one ranked about average, which meant somewhere between uncomfortable and excruciating. The cause was excellent--New Orleans reconstruction. The food was just as good--Creole by someone who obviously knew how to cook it, which meant it was heavy on the spices and not nearly as appreciated by the older crowd. Most of it got left on the plates, which had me looking around the sea of tables, mentally calculating how far that wasted food would go in some Chicago neighborhoods. But they'd paid handsomely for it, eaten or not, and that was the point.
James's father had been asked to give a speech tonight. James was doing it in his stead. That happened a lot lately, as his father aged, to the point where the organizers would be surprised--and probably disappointed--if James Senior showed up instead.
So James was a guest of honor, which meant everyone at this table wanted to make his acquaintance, and he couldn't spend the meal chatting to his fiancee. While he conversed with everyone in turn, I entertained the others. Every few minutes, his hand would brush my leg, sometimes a flirtatious tickle but usually just a pat or squeeze, a reminder that he appreciated me being there.
Finally dessert was served: Doberge cake, a New Orleans specialty, a half-dozen layers of chocolate cake with lemon and chocolate pudding between them. The meal was coming to an end, and conversation was hitting the stage of desperation.
"So how did you two meet?" asked the woman on my left.
"Their families know each other." A man across the table answered before we could. "Mills & Jones department stores. James Mills Morgan and Olivia Taylor-Jones." He sat back, looking smug, as if he'd just uncovered a secret--and somewhat shady--connection.
"Our grandfathers founded the company," James said. "Mine sold our shares to Liv's dad before I was born, but our families still get together a few times a year. Liv was always there. Usually getting into trouble."
A round of obliging laughter.